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UNDINE AND OUR SYLVAN WORLD 
 
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CX)PYRIGHT, 1906, BY 
 DANIEL EDWARDS KENNEDY 
 
 LISaARY c; CONGRf.SS 
 I Two Con-f? RecfiveO 
 
 I JUN 8 \90e 
 
 One hundred copies printed 
 
"0 
 
 7 
 
 K 
 
PAGE 
 
 UNDINE 1 
 
 OUR SYLVAN WORLD 19 
 
 THE REAL IRISH SHAMROCK ... 31 
 
 THOREAU IN OLD DUNSTABLE . . 41 
 
 A BROOK AND ITS FLOWERS ... 51 
 
 JULIUS 65 
 
 THE GARDEN 73 
 
 A SUMMER PATH TO A RIVER . . 83 
 
 GRAVEYARD GOSSIP 97 
 
 "FOXY" 107 
 
 ANTIQUES AND ANTIQUARIES . . 115 
 
 THEGOONACK 127 
 
 A DAY IN THE LIBRARY . . .135 
 
 THE COUPLE IN THE WIND ... l5l 
 
 SNOW TRACKS TO THE WOODS . . 159 
 
 LOT, THE RUSTIC 169 
 
UNDINE 
 
 Af Igf l&f 
 
UNDINE 
 JUR Undine is a life-sized 
 ! bronze statuette of a little 
 Igirl, with wavy hair and 
 fclear eyes. Helayne and I 
 3like to think her soft hair 
 golden and her half-closed eyes very 
 blue, perhaps because we see so much 
 in them, that we think we are looking 
 into the infinite blue of a broad heaven; 
 perhaps, because the only other little 
 person in our household has eyes that 
 surpass the sky. 
 
 She stands on the new old-fashioned 
 mahogany desk in the library bow 
 window, and, with drooping lids that 
 hide her eyes, looks down, benignant 
 and all-propitious, on the hearth of 
 our only home. Although, in truth, we 
 
 -1- 
 
bought her and took her away from a 
 brightly-lighted jewell-filled window in 
 one of the most noisy streets of a city, 
 still, she is not at all a slave, as she 
 very properly should not be in such 
 enlightened days as these. But, she 
 is very much of a tyrannical queen; 
 a very jealous goddess who demands 
 your all or none; a little immortalized 
 deity of our household; our saint; the 
 image of our Lares in spite of the 
 Roman custom of having one of the 
 opposite sex. 
 
 Just as a child sees in a rag-doll and 
 box fitted with curtains and furniture 
 from Liliput, a little world of its own, 
 just so, Helayne and I see a cosmos 
 in the eyes of Undine. The little per- 
 son, Thaddeus, being a child, of course 
 sees with eyes like those of the little 
 -2- 
 
 ,»^ .;^<^^'1/!^/5^^x 
 
 ^^ji^;^ p!^' 
 
mother with the rag-baby. Thus our 
 household, our triple alliance, the fam- 
 ily of which I am the proud head, live 
 in the light of the spirit of Undine. 
 
 At every meal, after the holy man- 
 ner of ancient sacrifice and first fruits 
 she is offered a prominent part of our 
 simple repast. In all our joyful family 
 occasions she has her part, and, be- 
 cause our Sylvan World is daily full 
 of those occasions, she wears her 
 crown, —no jewell-studded rim of gold 
 but a laurel wreath culled fresh, and 
 green at all times. 
 
 Our little Undine entered our Sylvan 
 World when we did,~on a bright and 
 clear day when the star bluets, in little 
 crowds, gave an azure aspect to the 
 lawn to the north; when the anemones 
 swayed in the spring winds down in 
 -3- 
 
the woods and the golden oriole hunt- 
 ed insects in the bark and new leaves 
 of the apple trees. 
 
 From that time, her image has pre- 
 sided over the lararia in our home, 
 where, in the summer, we often sit with 
 the songs of the birds floating in on 
 the warm heavy air; and, in the winter, 
 we join the old hearth circle when the 
 fire light plays over her delicate feat- 
 ures and casts a giant shadow of her 
 on the heavy window curtains. 
 
 At first, we knew little about her, but 
 day after day, we came to love her 
 more and more, and, as one very 
 naturally does, we went to the lore of 
 all lands and sought knowledge of her 
 birth and life. 
 
 And while we learned considerable 
 about her and came to understand her 
 -4- 
 
 'T e'l^^-M'.c. K^. ^ 
 
character better, still we were not 
 entirely pleased with what we found, 
 for some of it was quite odd and un- 
 usual and, perhaps, funny. 
 
 Pagan people gave her Nisus, for 
 her father —pagans, they gave her no 
 mother. She began her life when, 
 first, water was; her first play was a 
 free chase over the sand and pebbles; 
 her day's work was to sing a merry 
 song while, on the banks, the wood 
 nymphs danced with Pan as he piped. 
 
 In the old Paracelsist fanciful system 
 of things, she was the elementary 
 spirit of water— a sort of a Naiade —a 
 spirit without a soul, and only given 
 one when she has borne a child to a 
 mortal. But alas! in those days, no 
 man ever drank of the spring or brook 
 or lake or river, over which she pre- 
 -5- 
 
-t«^ 
 
 p-'S" -^ax'^stf 
 
 sided, and therefore, she could not in- 
 spire them with the gift God gave her, 
 or, rouse in the breast an unquench- 
 able love. 
 
 Time went on, and some one, driven 
 to a rural land by political faction or 
 social ostracism, or ft-om a free desire 
 of their own, came and wet his parch- 
 ed lips at her shrine and when he re- 
 turned among men they reverenced 
 him, as a seer,~a Tiresias; or, sat at 
 his feet and listened to his poetic 
 strains,— a Homer; or, cast him forth 
 a toy for the furies, ~a mad man, — a 
 melancholiac,-- a fool. 
 
 And, except for short occasional 
 visits. Undine lived entirely alone—and 
 waited—and waited— soulless! 
 
 Years went by — centuries — we 
 know not, how many. In their long 
 -6- 
 
 '^^ 
 
time, only a few~perhaps, one a year- 
 one a century—went to her shrine and 
 returned among men to tell of it. 
 Many went there and never return- 
 ed. Men in the outer world wondered 
 why they did not. Stories went about 
 that they had gone to some Circe, had 
 tasted of the magic gold cup offered to 
 them, and, probably, now they were 
 wild beasts running about at the call 
 of their mistress. 
 
 Bold adventurers went, some out of 
 curiosity; —some, to find the lost ones„ 
 An adventurous son sought his father, 
 an adventurous husband sought his 
 wife-they had been told that all of the 
 lost had been seen there, remaining, 
 because they did not desire to leave 
 that happy land. 
 
 These misguided adventurers had 
 
 -7- 
 
seen someone living and dying in 
 peace. They coveted it. They heard 
 that Undine would give it. They set 
 out on their quest, ~ errant knights 
 after another Holy Grail ~ and most 
 of them returned and had nothing, but 
 hardship, to tell other men. Others 
 went all the way and bent the knee. 
 But soon they also returned, because 
 they had a false idea, which, in turn, 
 they gave to their fellow men. 
 
 Among these, Baron De La Motte 
 Fouque told to the Germans a story 
 about Undine~a very German story— 
 in which she played the part of a sort 
 of German coquette, coming from the 
 country to a home in a city where she 
 was looked upon as a princess rescued 
 from some evil enchantment. 
 
 W^e, with others perhaps, sought 
 -8- 
 
Undine through the German eyes of 
 Fouque ~we put his book aside, with 
 never a word—with none of our desire 
 satisfied— and we sought further. 
 
 Before Fouque, John Oxenford and 
 Sir Julius Benedict had journeyed to 
 Undine's realm, had there formed a 
 friendship with one another and had 
 come back as companions. As a first 
 fruit of that friendship, they gave to 
 the world a cantata, called Undine. 
 
 We have not heard this musical 
 story of her charm and deification, but 
 we praise Oxenford and Benedict, for 
 we have been told, by those who did 
 hear it, that it was very much of a 
 choral piece and was very successfully 
 given at rural Norwich. To us, our 
 Undine, certainly would be in better 
 harmony at a festival than in a 
 -9- 
 
German city in Fouque*s poor story. 
 
 Helayne and I have only found 
 those three experiences of the seekers 
 after Undine. We wondered a deal 
 that some did not find dragons and 
 enchanted palaces and giants and all 
 kind of romantic adventure ~we 
 thought that, perhaps, their journeys 
 would have proved more interesting, 
 if they had. To us, there did not seem 
 to be such an ado about it ~ we found 
 none of the difficulties that others 
 had~we found the journey, if one can 
 call it a journey, a very pleasant one. 
 It did not seem long, we found 
 much to interest us on the way and 
 when we arrived there we bowed our 
 heads to Undine just as we do to the 
 image of her in our home. 
 
 Her one realm is the Sylvan World, 
 -10- 
 
where forests and brooks and birds 
 abound, and, while a German city, and 
 perhaps others, may think one, who 
 comes from that world, to be rescued 
 from an evil enchantment. Undine, in 
 turn, certainly thinks the same of the 
 city and she stays with her brooks and 
 fountains and lakes and rivers in the 
 more homely land and seldom bothers 
 to send back a true errant knight in 
 the cause of enlightening that city. 
 
 Therefore, if you would know 
 what peace and happiness and health 
 we find, v/hen the knee bends at the 
 shrine of Undine, you must be able to 
 find that peace and happiness when 
 you sit near a woodland brook in any 
 rural land of yours and just look and 
 listen, awed to silence in the presence 
 of the great sylvan-world deity. Then 
 -11- 
 
perhaps you will find, as we have, that 
 Undine without a soul is better than 
 many others with one. Then too, if 
 there happens to be a little chubby 
 hand in yours and a curly head in 
 your lap and in the air a little laughter 
 that melts into and harmonizes with 
 the songs of the plumy race ~ then 
 perhaps you will find, as one of the 
 true errant knights did, that "God 
 made the country and man made the 
 town" and you will vow never again 
 to aspire to city ideals and always to 
 keep the laurel wreath on Undine's 
 head fresh and green. 
 
 For, the condition of the sacrificial 
 wreath means much to the people in 
 the Sylvan World. A green one, indi- 
 cates that you have paid your vows to 
 Undine to-day. A wrinkled one, that 
 -12- 
 
you did so yesterday, perhaps. A sere 
 leaf, that you have ceased your Undine 
 worship and have returned to the city 
 ideals. And so, by the wreath, the 
 Undine worshippers can tell all about 
 you. 
 
 But, perhaps, in your conceit of 
 cleverness, you think that you could 
 easily deceive them or their Undine. 
 We hope you do not. One man did. 
 When he looked at Undine he did not 
 see the holy expression that Helayne, 
 little Thaddeus and I and other true 
 worshippers do. No one knew what 
 horrible thing he beheld; according to 
 rumor he sought in vain to take the 
 life of others and only succeeded in 
 taking his own. 
 
 In some seasons Helayne and I find 
 that, on one day, we together have 
 -13- 
 
not only placed the wreath on her 
 head for our household, but each of us 
 has, out of the fullness of the heart, 
 done so. Sometimes we even have 
 found little Thaddeus climbing up a 
 pile of books to crown her with his 
 little wreath. 
 
 Some day in winter when one says, 
 
 "A sad tale's best for winter. I have one 
 Of sprites and goblins. ..." 
 
 and the same little enthusiast is nestled 
 in your arms and your Hela3nie sits 
 opposite you at the fire, then, perhaps, 
 Undine will be crowned a fifth time 
 because, as you say, you watch the 
 expression of Undine for inspiration for 
 your "fairy story." And, as the sun 
 moves from east to west in his days 
 work, and travels from Undine's right 
 to her left, the light on her changes 
 -14- 
 
wonderfully; now giving her a stem 
 calm of contentment; now changing 
 the chiaroscuro about her eyes and 
 mouth as she becomes benignant; now 
 stealing around back of her head and 
 leaving her mouth in semi-darkness 
 with a faint smile lurking around the 
 comers of it; now coming over her left 
 shoulder, lighting up a part of her face, 
 calming the mouth; and, now as the 
 light in the sky dies away, she seems 
 to become as reverent as if she, like all 
 good little girls with souls, were saying 
 her prayers before going to bed. 
 
 The story of bears, sprites and fairies 
 goes very much the same way — now 
 stem and blood curdling; now promis- 
 ing an escape from the fiends; now 
 touching the humorous side of the 
 adventure; now coming back to some 
 -15- 
 
little child safe in father's strong arms. 
 And thereafter, as the days follow on, 
 and the little fellow who listens to your 
 story comes to strength and character 
 of manhood, some day you will see in 
 his eyes the light of a new awakening 
 and his song of praise of Undine and 
 his stories of her will revive yours that 
 have perhaps worn at the edges with 
 time. Then indeed you will know 
 that even though the boy is a man and 
 the father and mother are wrinkled and 
 grey, to every one who in all sincerity 
 of heart goes to her realm and bend- 
 ing the knee drinks of her inspiring 
 fount, Undine remains as she was all 
 the yesterdays and will be all the to- 
 morrows. 
 
 s^£ 
 
OUR SYLVAN WORLD 
 i& ^ ^ 
 
OUR SYLVAN WORLD 
 
 fFTER we had made Un- 
 ) dine the one goddess of our 
 household, after she had 
 s.come to play a great part 
 ^in our very lives, our Sylvan 
 World became almost an Arthurian 
 Avalon to us~a little terrestrial Para- 
 dise— a land haunted by kind spectres 
 and good ghosts—where the hills echo 
 the praises of the dead and the birds 
 sing hymns to the living. 
 
 Our Avilonian acres still have their 
 groves and woods for woodland w)ld- 
 ness; hamadryads still have their haunts 
 here; nymphs still bathe in the clear 
 waters; fauns and sat5a'S still watch and 
 pipe their mellifluous music. Whether 
 you find them all depends on the atti- 
 
 -19- 
 
tude you take in seeking for them. 
 
 If you come to our land, for refuge- 
 to pay homage to Undine— you will find 
 all that the heart desires and you will 
 stay with us. If you come, seeking to 
 lead back a father or wife, happy here, 
 you will not see or feel any of the wood 
 magic. If you covet our peace and 
 happiness, you will find more trouble 
 and unrest. If you come out of curios- 
 ity; if you bring nothing and expect to 
 go away heavy-laden with gold things 
 your footfall in the land will send all the 
 rural gods and goddesses in flight to 
 secret comers; you will find in a tree, 
 no dryad; in the air, no birds hymn; in a 
 brook or lake or stream, no Undine. 
 
 Helayne and I left the city, in distance 
 far far behind us, in memory blotted 
 out and unknown and settled a sylvan 
 -20- 
 
home when the heart renewed leaps up 
 in joy, when indeed 
 
 "Sumer is icumen in 
 
 Groweth sed, and bloweth med, 
 And springth the wude nu— " 
 
 We soon started to do the things 
 Undine inspired us to— she with her 
 woodland witchery led us here and 
 there. And yet we found she was 
 less of a bad witch and more of a good 
 fairy. 
 
 Under her direction, we fixed anew 
 the long neglected garden and the rains 
 came and it flourished. With her lead- 
 ing, we tramped over the roads and 
 bjrways and sought the banks of a wild 
 brook; we listened to its waters; we 
 culled its choicest flowers and we went 
 back to the old red house and took the 
 
 -21- 
 
song of birds and the sweet scent of 
 flowers and a glad peaceful heart along 
 with us. "When the time was ripe she 
 called us and we went on a summer 
 walk down to the river; we sought to 
 know the animals near by; we watched 
 birds in the trees; we came home with 
 our arms full of wild flowers. W^e 
 gazed with wonder on the heavens, 
 watching Venus hang like an earring 
 diamond in the sky. We wove pretty 
 fictions about the starry land; we saw 
 pretty fine couples there and Tiresias- 
 like we imagined they had souls and 
 sexes; so that we wondered if they were 
 married too, and we hoped they had 
 sylvan abodes and country solitudes 
 and an Undine. 
 
 Later, when the leaves went and the 
 autumn came, we spent chilly days in 
 -22- 
 
 !£~^f 
 
 i^^^^ 
 
the library and study, where we took 
 down from the shelves and read large 
 volumes by men who had seen some- 
 thing of a sylvan world and had wor- 
 shipped at a shrine of Undine. We 
 found many of them, for in these days 
 her shrines are myriad. One man calls 
 his sylvan land, Arden; another, Ar- 
 cadia; another, Avalon; another, Eden, 
 and so on even into the hundreds. 
 Some people, from the earliest exiled 
 monarch to the latest country lover, 
 have sought a Sylvan 'World as the 
 only solace. Fact and fancy have been 
 ever at war for man's soul and the 
 times run an interminable race from 
 one to the other. In the past, countless 
 numbers have left the town and gone 
 out in the country and some of them, 
 better seers than others, saw nymphs 
 -23- 
 
and fauns and sat5^s sporting in the 
 underwoods, and even some found the 
 fairies dancing in their mystic circle as 
 they wound their spell of enchantment. 
 They, the seers, gave back to the land 
 they had fled a pastoral scene of swains 
 and shepherdesses; whereby they lead 
 others to go to the country. Perhaps 
 some one of the city men, who little 
 knew what wonders the Undine wor- 
 shipper heard and what sights he saw, 
 came upon one of them, l5dng on the 
 grass under the greenwood tree, looking 
 up through the lace of leaves at the 
 clouds, or sitting on the river bank, fish- 
 ing. To the city man, just fishing; no 
 gods or goddesses; none of that senti- 
 mental stuff, as the realists call it. But 
 when the fisherman was left alone, or 
 another like him, met him; it was very 
 -24- 
 
different, especially to those concerned^ 
 Helayne and I were never alone in 
 our land; we had found no island where 
 we stayed as a Mr. and Mrs. Robinson 
 Crusoe. Every day brought some new 
 sound or sight to us; we saw all the 
 host of people who inhabit all nature. 
 At times there would be a veritable 
 hymn of praise sung by all the sylvan 
 deities; for a new soul had come to pay 
 homage to the goddess and all nature 
 rejoiced. Then too, letters from other 
 sylvan lands were left in the door of the 
 red house for us; letters that recalled 
 men and women we had seen. Some 
 of their messages were in extremity of 
 sorrow or joy; some were messages of 
 moderation, of man leading just the 
 every day, simple, rural life as best he 
 knows how. Our cup of happiness was 
 -25- 
 
indeed full to overflowing when joyful 
 tidings came; with sad ones, tears came 
 to us even in our sylvan world. A 
 marked newspaper told us of the death 
 of the Octogenerian; another marked in 
 just the same way told of the unexpect- 
 ed, but well deserved, success in a dear 
 friend's life work; we shed tears of joy 
 and tears of sorrow, both coming from 
 the same well, both wiped away by a 
 like handkerchief 
 
 Nights came and showers of fire 
 skimmed across the heavens; we looked 
 out at them from the cupola and we 
 learned the goodness of God from the 
 stars. We listened to the couple in the 
 wind, night after night, and we grew 
 accustomed to the creak of the ghost 
 and did not wish the house exorcised. 
 With all his ghoulishness, with all his 
 -26- 
 
creaks and groans, we rather liked to 
 have him haunt the house. He helped 
 to raise the spirits of the dear dead; a 
 groan came to mean a character to us. 
 A sigh brought back that young colon- 
 ial maid with her curls and low corsage, 
 her hoop skirts, just as she attended 
 that "great ball". A creak showed us 
 the old stage coach scarcely moving 
 through a mud hole on the old Concord 
 road, the coachman snapping his whip 
 at the leaders, the six horses straining 
 to pull the coach through, big old men 
 leaning out of the windows, scowling 
 and storming at the condition of the 
 road, in a comer, prim old maids hold- 
 ing their knees and breath, "positive" 
 that the wheels were going to break. 
 At times the ghost grows humorous; 
 at times disrespectful. He told us that 
 -27- 
 
tn our land "a grasshopper was once 
 seen perched upon the top of a dry 
 mullen stalk, with the tears rolling down 
 his cheeks, looking in vain to discover 
 one stalk of green grass." Then while 
 we laughed at him he slid out of the 
 room and was quiet for the rest of that 
 night. 
 
 W^hen the first snow fall came, I 
 left Helayne reading before the fire and 
 went to the woods alone. I came back 
 to her with cold face and hands, sat 
 before the blaze and told her what I 
 had seen. 
 
 On another day, when I was at work 
 in the study, she ran off like a truant 
 and came back to me and told me what 
 she had seen. So, we share our new 
 Sylvan World sights. 
 
THE REAL IRISH SHAMROCK 
 
 m 
 
THE REAL IRISH SHAMROCK 
 |ODDY brings us berries 
 afresh from the fields, and, 
 (ever since we took up our 
 /residence on the same 
 ^thoroughfare on which she 
 lives, she has been a faithful protegee of 
 Helayne's. She is a little freckled-faced 
 red-haired girl about eleven— a chip of 
 the old block, as they say,— a little un- 
 tutored savage of the Concord road 
 farm, more often found in the top of an 
 apple tree than in the dairy at her 
 chores. She has a wild hankering after 
 gaudy ribbons and stockings, a more 
 than normal heart beat at the tinsel on 
 the circus women's clothes. Once she 
 saw a play at the village "opera house" 
 and when her father asked her about 
 
 -31- 
 
it, the only thing she remembered, was 
 that Lizzie Perkins went with her and 
 'Lizzie Perkins had a new blue-and- 
 green dress, and, the heroine in the play 
 wore bright red leggings and a purple 
 tarn o' shanter. 
 
 The winter at the farm had been 
 dull, as usual. The weather had proved 
 more rainy than the country had seen 
 for ten years, and, for a few weeks, 
 Toddy found nothing to do but work in 
 the dairy. 
 
 "When a clear day had come round 
 in March she was let loose again and 
 with Lizzie Perkins she decided to pay 
 a visit to the near-by town. 
 
 Lizzie had saved seventy-five cents 
 and a Canadian ten-cent piece. Toddy 
 had a bright silver dollar and a twenty- 
 five cent piece and two pennies. Lizzie 
 -32- 
 
had on her old brown winter coat anc^ 
 a cap belonging to her brother —she had 
 it pulled tight on her head and over her 
 ears for there was a cold biting wind 
 coming from the north-west. Toddy 
 wore a black coat and cap~a coat that 
 gave her a look as if she had been 
 melted and poured into it. It looked as 
 if it pinched her all over. 
 
 The two young ladies condescended 
 to give a "good morning" to Hela5me 
 as they passed our home on their way 
 to the end of the trolley line where they 
 boarded the car for town. Needless to 
 say they made the trip both on their 
 knees, looking out of the window. 
 
 First they had to stop at the candy 
 
 store ~ just for a little ~ for Toddy's 
 
 father had given orders not to buy 
 
 more than ten cents worth of candy. 
 
 -33- 
 
Then, there was the ribbon counter at 
 Bustard's ~ they surely wanted to go 
 there. 
 
 As they passed the florist, Toddy 
 gave a jerk to Lizzie's arm and they 
 stopped before the window and read 
 the large green-lettered sign: 
 
 "The Real Irish Shamrock!" 
 
 "Oh, is n't that pretty?" cried Toddy. 
 
 "Beau— ti~ful!" Lizzie agreed. 
 
 "And such lovely pots they are in." 
 
 "Y-e-s." 
 
 "I'm going in and ask how much 
 they are." 
 
 The two entered the store rather 
 shyly. The clerk bowed to them. 
 
 "How much are the —the— pillow ~ 
 
 rocks?" Toddy was all confusion and 
 
 for a minute she did not really know 
 
 whether she wanted to buy a sham- 
 
 -34- 
 
rock or what she knew as a pillow sham. 
 
 "The—the flowers—in the window." 
 
 "Oh, you mean the shamrocks. One 
 dollar." 
 
 Toddy turned to Lizzie and Lizzie 
 looked a perfect blank. 
 
 "I'll take one-I guess.'* 
 
 The clerk chose one from the "win- 
 dow and talked as he did it up in tissue 
 paper. It seemed to Toddy as if he 
 would never finish it. 
 
 "You see there is a flower on this one. 
 Rather rare to get flowers on them. 
 You want to keep it well-watered and 
 give it a cool room. It grows fast." 
 
 Lizzie whispered in Toddy's ear; 
 whereupon she asked, 
 
 "Is it the real one?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. Real Irish shamrock." the 
 clerk responded. 
 
 -35- 
 
And so Toddy parted with her silver 
 dollar, received the little plant, done up 
 in four sheets of tissue paper, and, they 
 blew out and down the street to the 
 big store of Bustard's. 
 
 At the ribbon counter the rest of 
 their money went for pink and yellow 
 ribbons and when they had shut the 
 door and stepped out on the sidewalk, 
 Toddy thought for the first time since 
 she had had the shamrock put in her 
 arms. 
 
 "W^e have n't any money for the 
 car!" she gasped. 
 
 "What will we do?" Lizzie began 
 to whine. 
 
 "W^e might take some things back." 
 Toddy answered. 
 
 Then she thought of the ribbons~oh, 
 no, she could not give those up. Then 
 -36- 
 
she thought of the shamrock~oh, not 
 that. Then of the candy —that would 
 go-they could make some at home. 
 But they had eaten it. Then a happy 
 thought struck her and she almost 
 yelled. 
 
 "There comes Mr. Winton's car — 
 we '11 take that~and father will pay 
 him when he comes in town next time. 
 Mother got trusted once." 
 
 So, they boarded car number thirty- 
 two and were soon at the end of the 
 line. Toddy unceremoniously left Liz- 
 zie at her gate and hurried across the 
 road, home. She entered the kitchen 
 and there met the whole family, ~ 
 mother, father and brother Ned. 
 
 "Oh, see what I have got." she spoke 
 up. And she started to open the rib- 
 bon package after she had put the 
 -37- 
 
shamrock on the table near the door. 
 
 While she was opening it she talked, 
 
 "We forgot our fare, father, and Mr. 
 Winton trusted us." 
 
 The old man answered "yes." 
 
 Then the ribbons were laid out to 
 view and her mother looked them over 
 while her father sat and looked at that 
 other package, and, waited for her to 
 open it. 
 
 "But this is the fine thing." Toddy 
 said, undoing the shamrock. 
 
 Four pairs of eyes were on the won- 
 derful package. One pair sparkled with 
 joy, the other three stared in curiosity. 
 
 "It 's a real Irish shamrock. It cost 
 a dollar." Toddy said proudly. 
 
 "Oh, Lord!" her father ejaculated. 
 "It 's one of those pesky weeds fi*om 
 the cow pasture." 
 
THOREAU IN OLD DUNSTABLE 
 ^ Igf ^ 
 
THOREAU IN OLD DUNSTABLE 
 
 fND we rowed slowly on.... 
 
 ) looking for a solitary place 
 
 in which to spend the night. 
 . .W^e camped at length 
 
 ^near Penichook Brook, on 
 the confines of what is now Nashville, 
 by a deep ravine, under the skirts of a 
 pine wood, where the dead pine leaves 
 were our carpet, and their tawny 
 boughs stretched overhead. But fire 
 soon tamed the scene; the rocks con- 
 sented to be our walls, and the pines 
 our roof 
 
 So Thoreau wrote, when, in 1839, he 
 took his voyage on the Concord and 
 Merrimack rivers; taking a long trip to 
 Sylvan Worlds, in response to an appeal 
 of Undine. And it gives a peculiar 
 
 -41- 
 
charm to many of the walks and rides 
 that Helayne and I take in our Sylvan 
 World; the world once visited by the 
 Concord naturalist. 
 
 One day while on the river bank, 
 Helayne and I saw two French boys 
 in a boat floating by the current. We 
 did not think much of it at the time; in 
 truth if they had been men, we probably 
 would never have had our attention 
 drawn to their antics. The fact that 
 they were boys, at least, made us hope- 
 ful for their safety. 
 
 About sixty-five years ago Thoreau 
 went up and down the same river on 
 which the boys floated by the current. 
 Had it not been for the interest that he 
 took in the banks of that river we 
 would not have occasion to seek out 
 the spot by the Pennichuck Brook, 
 -42- 
 
where, sixty-five years ago, he camped. 
 
 He sought a solitary place. He 
 seems to have found it. 
 
 ". . We wrapped our buffaloes about 
 us and lay down with our heads pillow- 
 ed on our arms, listening awhile to the 
 distant baying of a dog, or the mur- 
 murs of the river, or to the wind, which 
 had not gone to rest. 
 
 Perhaps at midnight one was awak- 
 ened by a cricket shrilly singing on his 
 shoulder, or by a hunting spider in his 
 eye, and was lulled asleep again by 
 some streamlet purling its way along 
 at the bottom of a wooded and rocky 
 ravine in our neighborhood." 
 
 I do not think we are liable to forget 
 
 that part about the spider, and, the one 
 
 thing we could wish, would be, that he 
 
 might tell us how he managed to per- 
 
 -43- 
 
suade the spider to allow him to fall 
 asleep again. Is it not probable that 
 Thoreau allowed it to finish the hunt 
 and learn that his eye was no place for 
 flies or webs? A good many people 
 have learned almost as much about 
 Thoreau. 
 
 W^hen Helayne and I were recently 
 in Concord, I gazed long at that little 
 stone with "Henry" on it. Through a 
 little book in our library I had come to 
 feel as if I had some bond of fellowship 
 with that simple man, buried beneath 
 so simple a stone in Sleepy Hollow. 
 Only I wished he had a Helayne and 
 a Thaddeus. 
 
 In Concord when we had climbed the 
 
 hill and found the Thoreau lot, I had 
 
 expected to see some such enclosure 
 
 as that of Hawthorne, or some boulder 
 
 -44- 
 
such as marks the resting place of 
 Emerson. I saw a granite head-stone 
 so small that I believe I could carry it 
 as easy as a loaded dress-suit case. On 
 it was the simple Christian name; no 
 date; no quotation. All that, was left 
 to be cut on the family stone, so that 
 "Henry" was only one of the Thoreaus. 
 Perhaps he wished it so, and perhaps, 
 the people have respected his wishes 
 more than Bowdoin College has re- 
 spected those of its famous romancer. 
 
 "When we were back in our Sylvan 
 World we thought that Thoreau did 
 not need any monument or tombstone 
 credentials. We found that we could 
 not go about our land without linking 
 his name with it. 
 
 It was not long after we had come to 
 anciently - called Dunstable that we 
 -45- 
 
happened to experience some of the 
 same good fortune as Thoreau, when 
 here. "We bought a book; a book that 
 has some of the sentiment of a first 
 edition. It is a first edition; but the 
 book only went through one, so that its 
 place of interest is due more to another 
 fact about it. Thoreau read it and had 
 it in his small library; a small book call- 
 ed Fox's History of the Township of 
 Old Dunstable. W^e are told by Chan- 
 ning, in his storehouse of Thoreau 
 reminiscence, how he came to obtain it. 
 ". . . And, knocking, as usual, at the 
 best house, he went in and asked a 
 young lady who made her appearance 
 whether she had the book in question. 
 She had,~it was produced. After con- 
 sulting it, Thoreau in his sincere way 
 inquired very modestly whether she 
 -46- 
 
"would not sell it to him." I think the 
 plan surprised her, and have heard she 
 smiled: but he produced his wallet, gave 
 her the pistareen, and went his way 
 rejoicing with the book, which remain- 
 ed in his small library." 
 
 The fact that he bought Fox's book, 
 and buying a book meant a good deal 
 to him, even though he only paid 
 twenty cents for it, that fact, shows 
 that Thoreau had a great interest in 
 the place. 
 
 If you will read it over or even look 
 up the references to it among his collect- 
 ed works, you will easily see what the 
 attraction was to Thoreau in our land. 
 
 And he found much in our land, 
 
 many times more than we can find at 
 
 one glance. For, he is one of those 
 
 rare souls who profited most because 
 
 -47- 
 
he bowed at the shrine of Undine most 
 often. 
 
 Thoreau lived in very many Sylvan 
 W^orlds and probably saw more than 
 he thought profitable to tell to his 
 neighbor men. Perhaps he was wait- 
 ing and waiting for another man, as 
 the fisherman waits for another fisher- 
 man. 
 
 Helayne and I rejoice because he did 
 not leave us without singing a song of 
 sad farewell. He must have been row- 
 ing when he composed: 
 
 Salmon Brook, 
 
 Penichook, 
 Ye sweet waters of my brain 
 
 When shall I look, 
 
 Or cast the hook. 
 In your waves again? 
 
 %i^ 
 
A BROOK AND ITS FLOWERS 
 
 \$f 
 
 \$f 
 
 ^ 
 
A BROOK AND ITS FLOWERS 
 ELAYNE was busy about 
 the house and I sat trying 
 to read in the shade of the 
 apple trees. I could not 
 help but watch a humming 
 bird feeding on the trumpet vine that 
 climbs the back porch to my study. 
 
 The day was warm and sunshiny, 
 and, after the humming bird had dis- 
 appeared and I had made vain attempts 
 to centre my interest on the dull book, 
 I left it in the middle of a chapter, went 
 into the house to leave word of my in- 
 tentions and started off on a rambling 
 walk over the fields and down the hill 
 to the brook near the Arcadian flat land 
 where the cows chew their contentment 
 cuds in the shade of the willow trees. 
 
 -51- 
 
Of course I had put on my boots, my 
 coat and collar I had left with the book, 
 my shirt was open at the neck and 
 sleeves rolled up. As soon as I reached 
 my brook, in I went, ~ splash! The 
 water cooled my feet, the trees afforded 
 me shade and I started out, determined 
 to know every little eccentricity of that 
 miniature wild river. 
 
 On such an idle day and in a country 
 where "it seemed always afternoon," as 
 it did in Lotus land, there was no great 
 hurry, in fact I went slow, perhaps, not 
 to hurt the brook, perhaps because the 
 bed was of slate stone and quite able to 
 protect itself by a green slimy scum 
 that clings to it. For fear of a wet 
 fall I always take warning from that 
 scum and go slow. And then, besides, 
 nature does not fix things so that he 
 -52- 
 
 -^IT'snL-M', 
 
 ^'^^ ^^ \ 
 
who runs may read, she has a little way 
 of putting such scummy difficulties in 
 our way to try and make us go slow 
 enough to look about and see aU her 
 beauty, and whether or not we sing her 
 praises, lies at our mercy. 
 
 Up, on the bank, among the grasses 
 beside the brook, the thoroughwort 
 stood tall, and, in the slow movement of 
 the warm air, now and then, waved its 
 leaves like hands at me. Heal-all, that 
 common, jovial, little, fat fellow in royal 
 purple, clung among the green of the 
 bank, and, the jewel-weed stood and 
 cried out "hands off." 
 
 I glanced ahead and there at a turn 
 stood four stalks of a bright red flower, 
 conspicuous from its surroundings of 
 dark green. For once I risked the 
 danger of falling, rushing pell mell 
 -53- 
 
■«e 
 
 through the water for the cardinal— an 
 uncommon flower in this part of the 
 country —and I pulled it up by the roots 
 so as to set it out in the smaller brook 
 near our home. 
 
 Soon, I happened upon a little falls 
 where the water dropped two feet and 
 sang the merriest of songs. To the 
 left there was another course where 
 the water used to run before the flat 
 land over yonder was cleared and I 
 stopped up the present course and turn- 
 ed the brook into the old one. How 
 still and death-like it ran! But then I 
 thought the new course would be more 
 attractive and I ran down its banks to 
 see it. Before long I had reached the 
 forks and went back up the course I 
 had just dammed, and, at every turn, I 
 was convinced, it was the best. When 
 -54- 
 
 ^w«^^ 
 
I came back to the little dam the water 
 was running over the new falls quite 
 patiently but a conscience had roused 
 me and I had decided. With one kick 
 of my boot I sent mud and slate stones 
 a-flying and the brook jumped forth 
 joyously and went on in the course 
 chosen by nature. To me, it seemed as 
 if it sang a happier song at being let 
 loose to run in its own sweet will again. 
 Once in a while I had to go up on 
 the bank— now, because my boots were 
 not high enough to let me step in the 
 pool, and, now, because some spider's 
 web blocked my way. Then I began 
 thinking of how the flies have two bad 
 enemies near this brook— one, the min- 
 nows, that fly helter skelter when the 
 little watching fish runs in the pool 
 ahead of me and perhaps tells the old 
 -55- 
 
ones that a big giant is coming down 
 stream at a terrific rate,~and, the other, 
 the spider webs hung so near to the 
 best part of the brook bed that the wary 
 spider can come out when the fly is 
 caught and wind him with web and let 
 him hang there for another meal just as 
 a country matron stores away two 
 pieces of pie for the next day's dinner. 
 
 A little further on, in the course, I 
 crouched under an apple tree; a wild 
 one that had to grow two-year-old 
 thorns to protect itself from the cattle, 
 and, as I thought, man also, for just as 
 some prying "boss," they gave me a 
 good stab in the head once or twice 
 before I crawled out from under it. 
 
 Up, on the flat land, I found hairy 
 moth-mullein in little crowds perhaps 
 counselling against the ironweed so 
 -56- 
 
heartily hated by farmers. I passed a 
 place where the bank rose high and 
 steep. By leaning down and peering 
 under the trees I could see a few clust- 
 ers of that corpsy ghost flower, the 
 Indian pipe. The bank was green with 
 aged wintergreens and Dalibarda re- 
 pens leaves and beside the brook were 
 skull caps scattered along at irregular 
 intervals. 
 
 As I looked to the right and left my 
 eye caught sight of a purple-clustered 
 flower. Out of the cooling stream I 
 jumped to the bank and ran as if chas- 
 ing a rare butterfly. Here was a new 
 reward of my passion— I had found a 
 purple- fiinged orchid and my heart 
 swelled with pride. I thought of the 
 joy with which I would show it to 
 Helayne. I placed it carefully among 
 -57- 
 
the rest in my full hand and then re- 
 turned to my brook. But here there 
 was no going on. A bridge had barred 
 the way and one cannot very safely 
 and conveniently go under a brook 
 bridge, so I scrambled up the bank and 
 over the fence and hurried along the 
 road toward home. I did not stop to 
 think how I looked or how eager I acted 
 but, with perspiration on my brow, just 
 hustled along. Ten to one some farmer 
 probably saw me and thought me to 
 have grown a little childish or simple, 
 but then I was thinking of a brook and 
 its flowers. 
 
 Here this little brook had led me in a 
 most unreasonable course. I was not 
 half a mile from the place where I had 
 gone down the fields to it and here it 
 had been doubling, meandering, stealing 
 -58- 
 
under trees with thorns, hiding under 
 overhanging banks, in fact pla)dng me 
 all the Will-o'-the-wisp pranks possible. 
 The heat had roused me up until far 
 more uncomfortable than when start- 
 ing and what had I profited by leaving 
 the quiet shade of the apple trees and 
 the apathetic book. Well, anyway, 
 there was a purple-fringed orchid! 
 
 Helayne met me at the door. 
 
 "My! What have you? Here 's 
 that common old moth-mullein. Lots 
 of it in our neighbor's field. Here 's 
 that heal-all - - " 
 
 I dropped the flowers on the table 
 and went up stairs for my old copy of 
 Gray. On returning Helayne was 
 gone—and my orchid had gone too! I 
 called and called. She came. 
 
 "Where 's my orchid?.' 
 -59- 
 
No answer. She straightened one 
 of the plates on the wall. 
 
 "Did n't you take my orchid? Or, 
 did Thaddeus?" 
 
 "Orchid! What orchid?" she asked, 
 innocently. 
 
 "Must have lost it in climbing over 
 the fence. I 'm going back for it." 
 
 I turned toward the door. 
 
 "Your orchid is in my book." she 
 spoke up. "You mean old thing—you 
 found one before me." 
 
 I went out to the bam and got the 
 spade to set out the cardinal. Helayne 
 knew my pride about the orchid. 
 
 The next day I asked her if she had 
 a purple-fringed orchid in her book. 
 
 "Do n't know." she answered. "Go 
 and look." 
 
 She surprised me. "Only yesterday. 
 -60- 
 
Can she have forgotten it?" 
 
 She went up stairs and presently re- 
 turned all smiles— and mischief. 
 
 "Yes. Here is one, found — found 
 in Seymour's marsh." 
 
 "You stole that out of my flowers, 
 yesterday." 
 
 "The idea! You did n't have an 
 orchid yesterday. You lost one. Do 
 n't you remember, you were going— " 
 
 She turned away. Then it occured 
 to me that she wanted to have the 
 honor of finding that orchid. She 
 laughed— and so did I. I knew, and 
 she knew I did. 
 
 Since then, of course, Helajme has 
 been the botanical wonder of our little 
 world, for she found the orchid first— at 
 least she found it in the book, first. 
 
JULIUS 
 
JULIUS 
 HAD gone for a little joiir- 
 ^ney up the Concord road, 
 lout among farms and the 
 |thickly wooded lands. An 
 iold man hoeing near a bam 
 caught my eye. I leaned on the fence 
 
 rail and asked him the road to 
 
 He straightened up, as much as his age 
 allowed him, looked round at me and 
 told me to take the road to the left. 
 His large forehead—an indication of 
 a genius or a fool—his small eyes, with 
 a dreamer's dreaminess in them, his 
 long gray hair, his two teeth one in each 
 jaw, led me to start a conversation 
 with him. 
 
 "Beautiful country up here." I re- 
 marked, looking around and giving him 
 
 -65- 
 
a chance to take up the talk there, or 
 else with a grunt to return to his hoeing. 
 
 He did not follow my line of thought 
 for most farmers do not say very much 
 about the farm being beautiful, either 
 because they are seldom ever aesthetes, 
 and, if they are, their familiarity with 
 the place makes it nothing wonderful. 
 He met me half way and asked if I 
 knew a certain man, naming one from 
 the city near our sylvan home. WTien 
 he found I did he said he had been long 
 waiting to hear from that man about 
 his ''book." 
 
 Helayne can tell you how the men- 
 tion of the book affected me. Not in 
 vain had I been somehow drawn to a 
 man who would appear to most good 
 people as anything but attractive. 
 Now that the ground proved favorable 
 -66- 
 
I wished to get at the mind of the man; 
 to strip him of his ugly externals; to un- 
 derstand his nature, all, through the 
 book that I wanted to see. When I 
 asked him for it he favored me with a 
 rare smile, showed unbounded delight 
 and also his two teeth. His old wife 
 came to the door. 
 
 "Julius, that wood needs chopping!" 
 
 "I can't bother with that now, this 
 young man wants to see my book." 
 
 And, while he went into the house, 
 I stood and looked at the lichen-cover- 
 ed well and the bucket, kicking my foot 
 against the edge of the rotten boards 
 in the walk. 
 
 He soon came out with the "book." 
 
 It was a twenty page pamphlet, with a 
 
 buff-colored cover, the title, —well, never 
 
 mind the title, it was probably taken 
 
 -67- 
 
from some history that he read, and it 
 bore little relation to the substance of 
 the pamphlet. The man was of more 
 interest than the title or the contents, so 
 I went on in my conversation. 
 
 Having glanced over the pages, I 
 told him I would like to read it all. He 
 said I could have it. But I asked him 
 if he sold it~he rather reluctantly said 
 
 he had it on sale in the store at 
 
 but had not sold any. Then I asked 
 him what the price was and gave him 
 the money. 
 
 I expected he would want to go back 
 to the barn to work when I had bought 
 it, but he was not going to let me off 
 so easily. 
 
 "Do you write?" he asked. 
 
 "Some." I replied. 
 
 "Have you got one of your books? 
 -68- 
 
With you?" 
 
 "No. I have n't" was my reply. 
 
 "Well, when you come up here 
 again, bring me one, will you?" 
 
 I said I would. 
 
 "Do you know, I love to write. Why 
 I just love to think and think and think 
 and write." And then after a little 
 pause he said: "I want to write some- 
 thing that people will read after I'm 
 dead." 
 
 ^ ^ dJff dJf 
 
 The next winter, on inquiring after 
 the old man I learned that he and his 
 wife had perished in the burning of 
 their home. Often, we read Julius* 
 little book. 
 
 M> 
 
THE GARDEN 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
THE GARDEN 
 WHIPPORWILL'S song 
 was the first sound I heard 
 in the early morning. I 
 ^had not opened my eyes 
 I when down in the garden 
 somewhere he let burst his melody, 
 singing it out as fast as he could; a 
 most melodious song, sweeter and 
 sweeter because it fled quite away, and 
 returned again after its composer had 
 rested a little. 
 
 After the morning meal, when I went 
 out of the house and down the path to 
 the garden door, I found the evening 
 primroses had forgotten themselves and 
 were staring eyes open wide at the 
 sunlight. The whipporwill had gone 
 with the night and only a few English 
 
 -73- 
 
sparrows flew up from the walk, and a 
 robber robin sneaked out of the cherry 
 tree. 
 
 Of course our sylvan world would be 
 imperfect without the garden delight 
 and a good garden serves more of a 
 purpose than to give one an hour or 
 two every day in which the hands get 
 soiled with earth. If there is any one 
 thing that will give you health and 
 hope and patience, it is a garden, and 
 more than one pen will attest that fact. 
 
 Our garden is a simple, old-fashioned 
 place. W^e did not follow out any 
 Baconian plan or use more of our land 
 than one acre to set out one for each 
 month of the year, as Bacon suggests. 
 I rather imagine that if Bacon ever 
 took care of one garden he would have 
 found twelve of them rather an elephant 
 -74- 
 
on his hands and far from a delight—at 
 least if he got anything out of them. 
 But, of course, Bacon was writing "of 
 gardens" for English country gentle- 
 men, and they had enough gardeners 
 in their establishments to keep even 
 more than a dozen. 
 
 But, one Bacon garden would have 
 little in it to show each month,-- three 
 or four trees in bloom and not many 
 more flowers. To us, the greatest de- 
 lights in the garden aire the deceit of 
 the perfume and the veritable state of 
 disorder and panic among the beds. 
 
 Now, from the scent, you are sure 
 there are only roses there. The next 
 instant you change your mind and say 
 they are sweet peas. A little later you 
 think they were neither roses or sweet 
 peas but nasturtiums and then you give 
 -75- 
 
it up, to be impressed the same way a 
 few minutes later. 
 
 The looks of the garden would almost 
 make you think we had sown a sort of 
 a porridge-of-seed within the confines 
 of four lichen-covered walls, to give an 
 illustration of survival of the fittest. 
 But then, that is not the case. 
 
 Helayne and I go out there of an 
 afternoon and by a careful selection of 
 the strong and healthy we assist the 
 promising plants by clearing out the in- 
 firm and crippled, a sort of a savage 
 Canadian method of preservation of 
 the favored in the struggle for life. 
 
 And so it is that we have our garden 
 well in control, although it does not 
 look so, and the bluets and golden-rod 
 and evening primroses and rabbit foot 
 clover and other flowers called wild are 
 -76- 
 
 '"C ^Jk-M.' 
 
 OK "^^a-Hia* 'Vf b ""SS^ f^s' <*uS''*»- 
 
driven out of our little Paradise and the 
 domesticated ones are given all the 
 opportunities possible to grow up and 
 become favorites. 
 
 However, at the same time, there is 
 little formal method in our gardening— 
 of course I mean in the arrangement of 
 the various flowers,~for as one looks on 
 them from our chamber windows they 
 appear to be just a mass of all colors, 
 some making pleasant harmonies and 
 others horrible discords; a red poppy 
 killing, so to speak, a purple phlox; a 
 delicate purple morning-glory blending 
 with a cream-colored hoUyhawk that 
 grows near the western wall where the 
 morning-glories gamble. But, more 
 about the delights of the garden. 
 
 In the centre there is a square, paved 
 with gravel, surrounded by trees trim- 
 -77- 
 
med low, and, furnished with an east 
 and west high-back seat. In the centre 
 there is a sundial with Tennyson's 
 much beloved motto, non numero horas 
 nisi Serenas— I mark only the sunny 
 hours. 
 
 We had originally planned to make 
 a flower sundial, having a flower as the 
 symbol for each hour. Then the idea 
 struck us to have one flower with diff- 
 erent colors for each hour; but, we had 
 not quite made up our mind, when one 
 day, a native had the courage to look 
 in the door as we were at work, and I 
 invited him in. 
 
 He looked around, walked up and 
 down the paths, stopped at the wall 
 shaded from the sun, felt of the ivy sent 
 us from Stratford and finally sat down 
 on the seat near the west wall where I 
 -78- 
 
was working at the turban-like tulips. 
 
 "What do you callate to set that 'ere 
 square to?" he asked; for the centre was 
 spaded up, and, of course I had not yet 
 thought of gravel. 
 
 "We have n't decided yet." I answer- 
 ed. "We thought of making a flower 
 sundial there." 
 
 The visitor was silent. Presently he 
 spoke up. 
 
 "W^ould you like an old brass un?" 
 
 At that, I thought Helayne had found 
 a snake among her roses, she gave such 
 a jump. 
 
 And so it was we found a real sun- 
 dial and discarded the thought of doing 
 any design work with theflowers,~and 
 the motto we dug out of an old volume 
 in the library and the pedestal was cut 
 out of the state granite by a local cutter. 
 -79- 
 
When the sky is touched up by a 
 summer's sunset and the day's work of 
 the sundial is done, we often sit on the 
 east seat and read aloud from some 
 out-door author, or, together, in silence, 
 watch the heavens as they change to 
 tints of purples and pinks and yellows. 
 
 There we sat and watched the sun 
 go down back of a bank of pink clouds, 
 at the close of our first year of wedded 
 life at home, and later, when all the 
 colors blended into the gray of twilight 
 and we went through the covered gate- 
 way and into the house, the Bob White 
 called and called us back to sit on the 
 opposite seat amid a Paradise perfume 
 and w^tch the pumpkin-pie moon come 
 over the woodbined wall at the other 
 end of the garden. 
 
 •:^ 
 
 M U "X^ik^ 
 
A SUMMER PATH TO A RIVER 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
A SUMMER PATH TO A RIVER 
 ^RAISES of walking and 
 nature - walks have been 
 'many and the men ^vho 
 ahave sung those praises are 
 ^as varied in temper as they 
 are numerous. Men such as White, 
 Jefferies, Thoreau and Burroughs have 
 given us the fruits of their observation 
 while walking, Stevenson has given us 
 the best ideas on the abstract subject, 
 while other men such as Hawthorne 
 and Browning happened on many new 
 inspirations while walking the same old 
 paths. All these men, and one more, 
 have been favorites of ours and never 
 have we walked without their names 
 on our lips. Cowper is that other one. 
 He knew a good deal of walking and 
 there are seven lines of his poetry that 
 -83- 
 
express, with a few exceptions, all the 
 delights that the average man takes in 
 a summer's path. 
 
 "For I have loved the rural walk through lanes 
 Of grassy swarth, close cropped by nibbling sheep 
 And skirted thick with intertexture firm 
 Of thorny boughs; have loved the rural walk 
 O'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brink, 
 E'er since a truant boy I passed my bounds 
 To enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames;" 
 
 Many of us have known what a 
 rural walk like that means to a truant 
 schoolboy. He only needs to have 
 gone over one hill and perhaps down 
 into one valley before he has entirely 
 forgotten the book and the ferule. 
 
 At the height of his happiness when 
 he turns a green lane and his father 
 siezes him by the collar, the hard bony 
 hand or a good willow stick interrupts 
 the Elysian dream of the rambler, and 
 -84- 
 
the song of birds and the tinkle of the 
 bell on the cow and the humming of 
 the honey bee or insect and the river 
 and the flowers, all fly away and the 
 almost bare walls of the school room 
 and the ugly black boards and figures 
 and uninteresting books take their 
 place. That is the way the truant boy 
 finds it~the way Cowper found it. 
 
 Next to the piscatorial pastime of the 
 Isaac Walton type there is nothing like 
 a "rural walk o'er the hills through 
 valleys and by river's brink," for the 
 mature man as well as the truant boy. 
 
 If you go free fi-om care and duty 
 you will not only get much food for 
 healthy thought but an unconscious 
 "constitutional" as well. You can go 
 alone as Stevenson advises, you can 
 take a child with you, you can go with 
 -85- 
 
your Helayne, despite Stevenson's idea 
 that you will have to mince steps with 
 a woman. You do not want to hurry, 
 you do not want to walk faster than 
 Helayne can, you do not want to feel 
 any of the loneliness that the absence 
 of a human being gives one in the 
 woods and so, why not take Helayne? 
 Especially if she is in any way like you 
 in taste. 
 
 While they are walking past all the 
 wealth nature can display, certain men 
 figure percentages and count on the 
 weaknesses of poor humanity to make 
 a new article sell well or float a new 
 bond in some get-rich-quick company 
 that will pay in annual dividends more 
 than you invest and then wUl give you 
 common stock of the same value, as a 
 bonus. On the other hand there have 
 -86- 
 
been men decrepit and old who took the 
 same walk by the aid of a stout stick 
 and they thought of other things. We 
 are a good deal like those old men. 
 
 When we had been in the garden 
 for a little afternoon attention to our 
 garden delights, when a row of holly- 
 hawks had been transplanted and an 
 apron full of red roses gathered for the 
 house, when Thaddeus was tucked in 
 his bed watched over by a good do- 
 mestic, we left at home all thought for 
 the morrow, all care and duty, and with 
 ft-ee hands and hearts, we strolled down 
 the golden fields and along the wiggly 
 path to the woods. 
 
 The swallows were darting here and 
 
 there, pouncing on some summer's 
 
 insect. Up in a neighbor's field a sable 
 
 company of ejaculating crows were 
 
 -87- 
 
holding a council of war preparatory to 
 an invasion of a near corn-field where 
 an old straw man slowly swayed in the 
 weak wind and at times posed in an 
 idiotic posture. Large, cottony Delect- 
 able-mountain clouds floated overhead 
 in the heavens, cross old bumble bees 
 buzzing their greviances flew to another 
 flower, and twigs snapped under foot to 
 warn the little creatures of the under- 
 woods that the giants were coming to 
 take another look at their haunts. 
 
 That was the day we went down 
 through our golden-rod fields and found 
 an Arcady among the oak and pine. 
 
 The path was one that had probably 
 been followed by those old men and 
 truant boys; it was not straight and 
 cleared of underbrush and levelled, as 
 the business man would have it; in and 
 -88- 
 
out it wound, around obstructing trees, 
 around an evergreen copse; ~a path that 
 would have killed a Stevenson if he 
 hurried. 
 
 I, the taller, went ahead and made 
 doorways among the cobwebs. Violets 
 grew temptingly along the path, birds 
 took to wing from the trees before us, 
 insects fled the sunny spots, to return 
 after we had passed. 
 
 W^e stopped to rest and I lighted a 
 fire after I had built a little fireplace of 
 stones and had collected some oak 
 leaves and twigs and branches. My 
 Helayne sat Turk fashion, with her feet 
 under her, and made the violets into a 
 large bouquet. From my pipe I blew 
 clouds of smoke that rose slowly, with- 
 out wavering, in the warm air. The 
 chirping told of the return of the birds. 
 -89- 
 
There was no running brook near in 
 which we might find a book, we did not 
 like the sermons in the stones, and so I 
 took a little book from my side pocket. 
 
 "Violets dim, 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes 
 Or Cytherea's breath; . . ." 
 
 And I read more of that partly pas- 
 toral play of Shakespeare. 
 
 So we sat until the last twig had 
 curled up and fallen to ashes, and then 
 a choir invisible sang songs to us. 
 
 Peep, chick a dee dee dee dee dee ~ 
 one sang, and another answered. Bob- 
 ~b Wliite ! ~ went another. Thump, 
 thump, thump, ~ went the red-bellied 
 woodpecker. And then a train whistle 
 and a distant rumble and a trembling of 
 the ground and all the birds were quiet. 
 W^e arose and went on. 
 -90- 
 
Near the pine copse we came to the 
 spot, where, on a former day,I had read 
 from another play and had imitated 
 Orlando. My Rosalind should have 
 her name carved on a tree and verses 
 hung on the hawthorn hedges for her, 
 so that 
 
 "... these trees shall be my books 
 And in their barkes my thoughts He character 
 That every eye, which in this Forest lookes 
 Shall see thy vertue witneft every where." 
 
 And so I had carved a letter for the 
 name of Helayne, cut it deep in the bark 
 of a mature sympathetic pine, as a sign 
 of the love I bore her, just as the lovers 
 express themselves in a Greek novel. 
 
 We came down the sandy bank and 
 under the branches of the pollard wil- 
 lows to the riverside and there we sat 
 and watched the waters moving slow 
 and eternal to the sea. Here the river 
 -91- 
 
had worn its sluggish way through our 
 broad valley, the stream channel widen- 
 ing as the terraced banks add to the 
 river's load. And so it goes on, for 
 year after year and into the centuries. 
 And, in spite of the time passed, the river 
 is still young, and, opposite to human 
 nature, does not meander in fickleness 
 as the old rivers do, but makes straight 
 long courses and slow bends. 
 
 As we sat on the bank and perhaps 
 tempted the finny race with grubs 
 from a rotted stump, the contemplative 
 man could not help but go back and 
 rehearse some of the scenes that have 
 been enacted there long long ago. In 
 the river we saw the lore and legend 
 of the land, the Indian fights, the hard 
 struggles of settlers to make the home 
 hearth safe, to gain a living fi-om the 
 -92- 
 
GRAVEYARD GOSSIP 
 
GRAVEYARD GOSSIP 
 
 ELAYNE knows a woman 
 who holds the peculiar po- 
 sition of "friend of the 
 ^family." We call her Cos- 
 emetic Carrie — the reason 
 will be seen presently. 
 
 I believe she is nearing the seventy 
 mark in age, she wears a wig, lines up 
 her eyebrows, rouges her cheeks and 
 colors her lips. Once she even confided 
 to Helayne that she always used lots of 
 powder after her bath. When she 
 enters the room the reason of her name 
 is quite clear, every room she rests in 
 she permeates with the odor of a "green 
 room." You meet her, give her one 
 glance and say, under your breath, 
 Cosmetic Carrie. 
 
 -97- 
 
A short time ago she came to stay 
 over night to see our home—and inci- 
 dentally, what sort of a husband and 
 child Helayne had. She begged to be 
 allowed to have the windows of her 
 room closed, she would like another 
 coverlet, and something to wrap around 
 her feet when she had put on her bed- 
 room slippers, then perhaps if it would 
 not be too much trouble she would like 
 the water bottle, and then she would be 
 everlasting grateful if there were some 
 sort of a shawl she could put about her 
 shoulders. W^ell, she got them all and 
 Helayne smiled a bit and left her. 
 
 During the night the steam pipes 
 banged and cracked and the heat came 
 so fast I had to get up and shut it off— 
 and Helayne said something sleepy 
 about running the heater like mad. 
 -98- 
 
In the morning Helayne went in to 
 see our guest, expecting to find her 
 roasted to death. C. C. embraced her 
 and blessed her eternally, she had had 
 the most lovely night she ever had. 
 Helayne simulated some duty so as to 
 get away from those cosmetics and to 
 keep herself from fainting. When C. 
 C. was down stairs I had to take my 
 turn and save the room for another 
 visitor whom we were expecting the 
 next week. I stood it as best I could 
 but hung out of the window when I 
 had opened it. 
 
 That afternoon, when we were talk- 
 ing in the library, and I could n't smoke 
 for C. C. "hated the filthy weed," she 
 suggested to Helayne a walk to the 
 graveyard. Of course we knew she 
 had had relatives here so we took it 
 L or - -99- 
 
for granted that she bore an affection 
 to some one of them dead, and Helayne 
 very reverently agreed to go—and we 
 asked no questions. 
 
 Of course the walk was agreeable— 
 they talked and talked and talked. 
 Carrie thought Helayne had a "most 
 delightful husband," "but it is too bad 
 he smokes." Her dear nephew Bertie, 
 just too nice for words, he never had 
 lighted a pipe or cigarette in his life, 
 she would swear it. Of course he used 
 to go off with a nice drummer every 
 Saturday, a little fiin that he had, but 
 she knew he only played pool, and he 
 had liked peppermint candy ever since 
 he was a baby. 
 
 The night before, Helayne had called 
 my attention to a beautiful diamond 
 pin she wore in the back of her neck 
 -100- 
 
ribbon. When they were on the way 
 to the graveyard, Carrie suddenly gave 
 a little cry and begged Helayne to try 
 and stop that something from sticking 
 in her neck. Helayne searched, she 
 saw the diamond pin,~of course Carrie 
 wanted her to,~she could not find any- 
 thing out of the way, Carrie felt all 
 right, and so they went on. 
 
 Helayne thought Carrie would lead 
 her along the roads to some little grave 
 where she would have to stand and 
 look about her while Carrie wiped 
 away a tear or two—and perhaps some 
 paint with it. 
 
 They walked down one path, across 
 the cemetery by another, back again, 
 across again. Helayne began to won- 
 der. Cosmetic Carrie began to tell her 
 some gossip about some man out in 
 -101- 
 
Oklahoma, some rascal, a regular old 
 villain, he had helped to have Carrie 
 dismissed from her work, he had plotted 
 with the mayor and the police and 
 heavens only knows perhaps the Czar 
 of Russia to have her position taken 
 away from her. To Helayne it went 
 in one ear and out the other, and then 
 Carrie became a little tired and worked 
 up, and suggested they "might go now." 
 Helayne gave a sigh of relief and they 
 boarded the car for home. 
 
 A couple of hours later, when I had 
 lighted my cigar after seeing Cosmetic 
 Carrie on the car for the station, we 
 sat in the library. When she had told 
 me of their mournful visit to the grave- 
 yard I asked Helayne what finally 
 became of the villain. Poor Hela5me 
 did not know whether he succeeded in 
 
 -102- 
 
^fc4 '-i^O. ■ ' I), tj '^-^ 
 
"FOXY" 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
"FOXY" 
 jHE story of Narcissus is 
 feomewhat known by most 
 ^people of our time, at least 
 /the average person knows 
 teat he was the youth who 
 saw his own reflection in the water, 
 pined away with love for it, and from 
 whose remains the flower Narcissus 
 sprung up. Ethelbert Nevin knew 
 something of the story and made his 
 name immortal by a rippling "water 
 scene" based on the myth. 
 
 If you read the original story as it 
 appears in Ovid you will find that there 
 are some moral lessons in it, as well as 
 a pleasant little creation myth of the 
 flower. 
 
 If you have in mind the "pretty part," 
 -107- 
 
as we might call it, of the flower, the 
 part that appeals most to us, of the 
 origin of the delicate white flower with 
 the yellow centre, I think you will per- 
 haps find some of the same charm in 
 the little story of "Foxy". Perhaps I 
 had better begin by telling you the way 
 in which I happened to hear it. 
 
 I was paying an afternoon's visit to 
 the farm of a friend, the daughter of the 
 Octogenerian. She and I had an in- 
 terest in common, namely; landscape 
 painting, and I had driven eight or nine 
 miles across country to see her home. 
 
 The Octogenerian was about five 
 feet six or seven, rather slight in build, 
 hardened by work in winter winds and 
 summer suns, a man with a noble brow, 
 a strong, set mouth and a chin that in- 
 dicated determination. He was a rare 
 -108- 
 
farmer, a happy harmony of homely 
 traits and artistic temperament, perhaps 
 that is why his daughter was a painter. 
 At his farm you would not find things 
 to hurt your eyes, so to speak; the place 
 seemed to have an unusual air of re- 
 finement about it. 
 
 We sat on the stoop for a while talk- 
 ing and two fox terriers soon made 
 friends with me and licked my hand 
 and sat in my lap. Then we took a 
 stroll through the orchard and vineyard 
 and flower gardens. 
 
 We had visited the pine grove and 
 here and there had stopped at leafy 
 bowers in which stumps of long dead 
 trees had been cut and fitted together 
 to form seats. We had passed rare 
 bushes and trees, many of them grafted, 
 and bed after bed of old-fashioned 
 -109- 
 
flowers, and as we came before a large 
 cluster of hoUyhawk, my companion 
 held one of the red-streaked cream- 
 colored flowers in his hand and stood 
 there spellbound, repeating over and 
 over again, "poor Foxy, poor Foxy, 
 poo - - r Foxy." 
 
 I looked at him and his sad face hin- 
 dered me from asking the question I 
 had in mind. I did not need to ask it, 
 the heart of the man made him want 
 to tell me of it and he asked me if I 
 would like to hear of Foxy. 
 
 Then in a lower than conversation 
 tone that gave to the story a reverence 
 only equalled by the hush in an empty 
 cathedral he told me a little American 
 country happening that stands superior 
 to any creation myth, even that of the 
 boy Narcissus. 
 
 -110- 
 
There was one of the litter of fox 
 terriers that he liked the most, partly 
 because in its play it always rolled over 
 on the ground and thereby drew more 
 attention to it, and, partly because it was 
 so much more affectionate than all 
 the others. 
 
 ^Vhen it grew strong enough he 
 used to take it to the fields with him 
 and the little fellow romped about and 
 played tirelessly with the men when 
 resting in their harvesting. 
 
 One day when they were working 
 they missed Foxy and thought that he 
 had gone back to the house. And a 
 little later they hitched the horses to 
 the hay wagon and started. A little 
 muffled cry came from under the rear 
 wagon wheel and they stopped and 
 jumped off to the ground. Then, the 
 -111- 
 
old gray-haired man said "poor Fox 
 for the first time, and with tears rolling 
 down his cheeks took up the warm 
 little body and walked across the field. 
 He felt it grow cold in his arms and 
 when he reached the garden he laid it 
 among the flowers and got the spade 
 fi-om the barn. 
 
 The year after, hollyhawks grew up 
 all about the grave. He said he had 
 other varieties in color, but these were 
 cream-colored, and through them a 
 little streak, red as blood. 
 
 When he stopped, he looked down at 
 the ground and only said, again, "poo-r 
 Foxy." 
 
ANTIQUES AND ANTIQUARIES 
 
 \$ 
 
 )i^ 
 
ANTIQUES AND ANTIQUARIES 
 )F YOU are an antique 
 collector perhaps the ex- 
 iperiences of Helayne and 
 |I will help you some. If 
 jyou go into a so-called an- 
 tique store there always will be a 
 character study something after this 
 manner. 
 
 You walk into an antique store, the 
 man comes to meet you, he knows by 
 the way you open the door whether 
 you are out "buying" or "just looking 
 around." Of course you affect a non- 
 concern about something you price, he 
 has seen that non-concern before and 
 ten to one he knows whether or not it 
 is affected. 
 You walk about the store, he has had 
 -115- 
 
other store walkers and it gives him a 
 chance to size you up from your ap- 
 pearance. You give a start when you 
 see something you would like, he has 
 studied other faces besides yours, and 
 perhaps ones that are better deceivers. 
 And so it goes on, the character study. 
 Is it quite clear to you? But when you 
 turn his method on him it is another 
 affair, and you do not buy so much and 
 what you get is better and possibly a 
 real antique. 
 
 The definition of antiques as you buy 
 them on Boylston street, Boston or 
 Fourth avenue. New York is rather in- 
 definite. I suppose it depends on what 
 it means to each buyer, a subjective 
 definition. At least, to me, a table, with 
 a cherry top, finished in mahogany and 
 a mahogany frame and one leg new or 
 -116- 
 
replaced from some other table, and the 
 handle to the drawer new, and the front 
 of the drawer replaced from another 
 drawer and blocks set in the legs to 
 conceal the place where a shelf used to 
 be, and all that,~you probably have run 
 across them—that table is not an antique 
 any more than a building built of old 
 second-hand lumber. That table, to 
 me, is like the beautiful Smith college 
 girl photograph I once heard of It 
 was a composite, and into it, entered 
 the skeleton grind as well as the fair 
 one who just keeps her standing high 
 enough to allow her to be an athlete. 
 You see, the table or picture, which- 
 ever you will, is a conglomeration of 
 parts that parade around under a pleas- 
 ant name. It would not be advisable 
 to inquire into the history of the table 
 -117- 
 
any more than to go to Smith to see 
 that girl. 
 
 Then, there is another thing one must 
 adopt in an antique store. You must 
 not lie to the man, for if you do, he will 
 be a better Ananias than you. Do not 
 tell him you can get a table for a dollar 
 less than that—he knows for how much 
 you can get one. Do not edge around 
 and go out—he can tell, by the way 
 you do it, if you are coming back again. 
 Treat the man as you would any other 
 store keeper, do not try and find out 
 how much profit he is making, take it 
 for granted he is getting a profit big 
 enough to pay his fashionable-street 
 rent and to give him a few of the dain- 
 ties of life. 
 
 Down in the city, on one of the car 
 streets there used to live a man to 
 -118- 
 
whom we often went for an antique. 
 He lived in four rooms in a little tene- 
 ment, one on each floor for the antiques, 
 while the other two made up all he had 
 of a home. 
 
 In summer it was a pretty place, the 
 windows lined with blue plates and cups 
 and pitchers, the gabled roof and the 
 little pointed protection to the door. 
 It faced on a yard decked in reds and 
 blacks and blues on the wash-day when 
 we first went there. Before the door 
 there was a line of maple trees and a 
 road and a lawn, half sunny. 
 
 Mr. B was a short, somewhat 
 
 corpulent man, had a double chin and 
 legs accentuated in their bow by the 
 uncreased trousers that reached only 
 below the shoe tops. He liked a cap 
 on the back of his head, partly gray, 
 -119- 
 
and a red crocheted coat. His double 
 chin and set bull-doggish mouth gave 
 him a serious expression except when 
 the crow's feet came around his small 
 blue eyes and a laugh released the 
 tension of his jaw. 
 
 The first time I met him he gave me 
 a feeling of security, a sort of a confi- 
 dence in the man, even though he pre- 
 tended to be an antiquary and I an 
 innocent. I looked at a table, a round 
 centre one, that he probably has yet, 
 because of his honesty. Half a dozen 
 have been on the point of buying that 
 table, when he tells them the top has 
 been cut down fi-om another they do 
 not take it, but they come back, perhaps 
 to buy, he says. I looked at that table 
 and I have gone back a good many 
 times. 
 
 -120- 
 
B. hands out a candlestick and says,- 
 
 "Here's one that is very squrse. 
 They used to take it with them in the 
 bag when they travelled and they just 
 took it out and screwed it together like 
 this and put the candle in it when they 
 wanted to write or like that." 
 
 B. has told that "squrse" story every 
 time I have been in his shop,~but he 
 tells other stories. I looked at some 
 blue plates,-- 
 
 "Those are n't old." he said. "I bought 
 those for ten cents down town to put in 
 the window for an adver-tise-ment." 
 
 He put his hand in his side pocket 
 and withdrew something in wrapping 
 paper. "But, here is a cup plate." he 
 went on as he opened it. "That 's 
 awfully old— awfully, awfully old— it *s 
 historical— why a lady said she would 
 
 -121- 
 
give me fifteen dollars for it if it was n't 
 cracked." 
 
 After looking it over I asked if he had 
 any more furniture and we went up 
 stairs to see a four -posted bed and some 
 bureaus, all of which he took great pride 
 in because he had "finished" them. 
 
 "Is that bed mahogany?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh, my, no!" he answered. "It's 
 solid cherry with mahogany finish on it." 
 
 "You put it on hot, do n't you?" 
 
 "Boiling hot. First scrape it, then 
 the mahogany finish, then sand paper, 
 then two coats of shellac, then the sand 
 paper again, then varnish." 
 
 I began to wonder if my "mahogany" 
 chest of drawers I bought in Boston 
 was cherry. In fact, I decided, then 
 and there, to learn to identify the real 
 article. 
 
 -122- 
 
"Have you a banjo clock?" I asked, 
 "Nope." Then he added, "I used to 
 sell them for five dollars, lots of them, 
 before I know'd better, know'd they 
 were squrse, but I 've learned better 
 now, you see I doubled my money and 
 that 's what I wanted. But do you 
 know I 've heerd that them there fel- 
 lows in Boston and New York get big 
 big prices for them, and I suppose they 
 sometimes get a hundred dollars for 
 them. No, I hai n't got one. I wish 
 I had." 
 
 And so he goes on, ever pleasant^ 
 ever interesting, ever honest, honest to 
 a fault, for he wants you to come back 
 and buy more. Of course he knew us, 
 he did not fear we were buying as 
 dealers or going to pick them up and 
 ship them to Boston to bring a higher 
 -123- 
 
price in return for his confidence in us. 
 But he did sell to dealers. And he al- 
 ways got the price that gave him his 
 little profit and that was what he was 
 looking for. And the dealers, of course 
 found that an easy way to buy, —and so 
 it goes. 
 
 I believe B has moved into new 
 
 quarters, he has probably made money, 
 and deserves to. At least I have been 
 told that he looks happier and is jollier 
 than ever. If you ever happen on him 
 you will probably find him just the 
 same as I did, unless you try and beat 
 
 him. But remember B is an old 
 
 antiquary and the character study goes 
 on in his shop just the same as in all 
 others. 
 
THE GOONACK 
 
 \$f 
 
 ^ 
 
THE GOONACK 
 .-®)IXTLE curly-haired, blue- 
 eyed Thaddeus will tell you 
 there is a rare book in our 
 household that excels all 
 the others without pictures. 
 It is our animal book. In that book you 
 will find some astonishing information 
 about monsters and if it does not make 
 you see things at night it is not the 
 fault ot the narrator. Take for instance 
 these that I just recently read to the 
 little fellow. 
 
 The Brontops Robustus~a new ex- 
 tinct quadruped from North America, 
 a robust fellow, height eight feet, heavy 
 and massive, larger than any of the 
 Dinocerata, with a length of nearly 
 twelve feet, without tail. The limbs 
 -127- 
 
are not so long as the elephant which 
 it nearly equals in size. Feeds on apple 
 trees eating them like humans eat 
 watercress. 
 
 "That 's why the boys keep out of 
 our orchard." Thaddeus told me. 
 
 At different times, one of us armed 
 with a gun and the other with a bow 
 and arrow have watched for the Bron- 
 tops— but we have not seen him. One 
 night we thought we heard him but it 
 was too bold to go out and we liked 
 the fire better. 
 
 Megalosaurus Bucklandi ~ this is a 
 carnivorous Dinosaur, about twenty- 
 five feet long. It is not difficult to im- 
 agine a megalosaurus lying in wait for 
 his prey, perhaps a slender little harm- 
 less newsboy, with his limbs bent under 
 his body so as to bring his heels to the 
 -128- 
 
ground and then with one terrific bound 
 from those long legs springing onto the 
 prey and holding it tight in its claws, as 
 a cat does a mouse, then the sabre-like 
 teeth would be brought into action and 
 crunch, crunch, crunch! 
 
 "Perhaps that is why I would n't be 
 a newsboy," a certain person told me 
 before the library fire. 
 
 The Mososaurus, the largest sea 
 snake, about a block long, he is a side- 
 wheeler, he has a set of paddles, a long 
 neck, a flat pointed head, a very narrow 
 body, so that he is able to crawl right 
 into the portholes of ships. 
 
 "Oh, I would n't be a sailor for any- 
 thing. I'm so glad we are not right on 
 the sea-shore." 
 
 The Goonackius Umulautus, length 
 ten feet, but the most powerful of all, 
 -129- 
 
long ears, large red eyes, pointed tail, 
 razor-like teeth, claws like the points of 
 scissors. Feeds on young children, has 
 never been known to attack men, very 
 common, can be heard most any windy 
 night, has a peculiar cry, something like 
 O....E....aw!~in a high tone. 
 
 Many are the days we have gone to 
 the woods to try and get a glimpse of 
 the Goonack, as he comes from the 
 White mountains down to the big sea, 
 perhaps we might even find him asleep, 
 and you know if w^e did we could kill 
 him. Oh, how we have wished for some 
 Theseus to come and rid the land of 
 him. How we have read and read in 
 books to try and find some old Theseus 
 trick to play on the Goonack. And if 
 we killed him we were going to try to 
 sell him to the butcher, perhaps he too 
 -130- 
 
might be good to eat, for dogs. Ugh, 
 but he eats little children! Wonder if 
 he eats newsboys? Ugh! 
 
 Of course there are other animals in 
 the book but these are the favorites of 
 Thaddeus. When one is on the look- 
 out for the Brontops and the Mososau- 
 rus and the Megalosaurus and the 
 Goonack, a chipping squirrel or a big 
 fat woodchuck or a sneaking fox or a 
 brown rabbit hardly ever scare one. 
 Then too we often see a good many 
 flowers and birds and we study them 
 so as to find a fabled flower that pro- 
 tects little boys from all wild animals. 
 But the worst part of it is that we have 
 not found a Goonack or his tracks, 
 although we have searched and inquir- 
 ed a good many times. 
 
 The other animals are in many books 
 -131- 
 
but the Goonack is only in ours. Often 
 word comes from another little neigh- 
 boring fellow that he thought he saw 
 or heard a Goonack the night before, 
 and of course we immediately look for 
 the tracks with a view to finding him. 
 But then we have had trouble in being 
 sure that we followed the right track, 
 for the book says nothing about them, 
 and so our hunt is usually Goonackless. 
 But, occasionally we find a squirrel. 
 Meanwhile someone is growing larger 
 and stronger and perhaps he may never 
 have a fight with the Goonack, for the 
 book says he rarely ever attacks men. 
 
A DAY IN THE LIBRARY 
 
 ^ 
 
 \$f 
 
A DAY IN THE LIBRARY 
 
 »HEN I awoke at daylight 
 1 found the sky laden with 
 jlead-colored clouds. The 
 )\therTnometer was down to 
 itwenty-foxir and a snow 
 storm was setting in as if it intended 
 to stay. During breakfast the flurry 
 came—first a light fall, then the flakes 
 increased in number and size till the 
 hills and the houses down across the 
 valley blended with the sky, and only a 
 dark indistinct line of foliage showed 
 where the pine and oak woods began. 
 A little later the wind came down 
 fi-om the north-west and the drifts be- 
 gan to form around the side door and 
 in the nooks and crannies beneath the 
 trees around the house. The apple 
 -135- 
 
trees outside the library bow windows 
 had a little line of snow along their 
 branches and now and then a big gust 
 of wind shook the blinds, swayed the 
 vines on the piazza to and fro, and scat- 
 tered on the ground little clumps of 
 snow from the trees. 
 
 I went out of the room, and, after a 
 little hunt down cellar and some split- 
 ting with the hatchet, returned with an 
 arm full of fuel for the fire. 
 
 Packing boxes make a good quick- 
 burning kindling and only a half minute 
 passes before a column of fire is rushing 
 up the chimney. Snap, snap, snap-snap 
 goes the fire, like a whole bunch of 
 firecrackers, making a great ado about 
 nothing. And while the kindling is 
 doing its work Helayne sits with a 
 paper-basket beside her and pelts the 
 -136- 
 
flame with a seemingly endless supply 
 of wads of paper. Then we draw up 
 our chairs in the hearth circle and read. 
 
 Oftentimes a sentence is broken in 
 tw^o by a little comment, or a little new 
 thought we have brought to mind by 
 some word we are reading, or by the 
 lack of attraction, we go off on a day- 
 dream over some sentence of a w^ordy 
 writer, and, after thinking it all over, we 
 comeback to our book, and perhaps 
 read over what we have dreamed over. 
 
 I took up a few more logs and rebuilt 
 the sinking fire. The bark takes fire 
 quickly and beneath it the smoke curls 
 out in little spirals. Birch seems to be 
 better than pine for a fire when you 
 want to watch it~it burns quicker and 
 so makes more changes in its size and 
 shape of flame. And really it is the 
 -137- 
 
mutability of the wood fire that makes 
 it preferable to a gas log, is it not? 
 
 I have watched one particular gas 
 log at different times for ten years and 
 every flame is just the same as it was 
 ten years ago. Now and then a wood 
 fire springs little surprises on you, a 
 flame jumps out here, where you did 
 not expect it, a red hot coal falls dif- 
 ferent than you thought it would, a piece 
 curls up like a writhing snake, another 
 expands and breaks as if it warped. 
 
 But then I dreamed some of my best 
 bachelor dreams before that gas log 
 and it only lost its fascination for me 
 when I set up a crane and pair of and- 
 irons in a fireplace of my own. And 
 of those andirons and that crane more 
 presently. 
 
 It was no unusual thing for me to 
 
 -138- 
 
have a roaring fire going on the hearth 
 and the door and windows wide open; 
 for I had a fire to look at, and, in an age 
 of steam heating, that seems to be the 
 place of an open fire. 
 
 But, if you want a fireplace to make 
 in you the reverence that it did to 
 people when they even buried their dead 
 beneath the hearth stone, there must be 
 some sentiment about the fittings of it. 
 You do not need to go quite so far as to 
 make a graveyard of your hearth. 
 Perhaps time will do that. If you have 
 the fittings with some sentiment attach- 
 ed to them the rest will take care of 
 itself. The smoke and soot will make 
 every fire-back look the same and you 
 will not have to do more than sit in the 
 hearth circle to have that same home- 
 like feeling creep over you. 
 -139- 
 
But notice that you must sit in the 
 hearth circle. If you sit at the side of 
 the hearth you will invariably look at 
 the opposite side and not at the fire. 
 
 At a vaudeville show I once saw the 
 following. A man, on the eve of his 
 wedding, sat smoking before a fireplace 
 in the centre of the stage, —he was sup- 
 posed to reverie the past and dream of 
 the coming wedding. Up above the 
 fireplace the scene opened and by a ser- 
 ies of living pictures his thoughts were 
 given to the audience. 
 
 To me, the whole effect was spoiled 
 by having him look away from the fire. 
 For it is in the fire that you live some 
 in the past, very little in the present and 
 much in the future. 
 
 You have a reverie or you sit in cow- 
 like contentment of the present or you 
 -140- 
 
 ^ 
 
see a castle in Spain. For the most part 
 the hearth is a place of reveries and 
 dreams. The lover thinks of the trysts 
 of yesterday and the promise of another 
 for to-morrow, the business man dreams 
 of the past or future success or failure. 
 And so we sit and look into the fire 
 beyond the andirons. 
 
 And this brings up my andirons and 
 crane. The former are rare— not an- 
 tique, not historical— not for sale on 
 Boylston street or Fourth avenue. I 
 have never seen any just like them—and 
 that is because they were designed by 
 Helayne. But I will not give you a 
 description of them or recommend them 
 by a drawing, if I could draw, as Ik 
 Marvel did for country homes and prae- 
 dial homeliness and beauty. You had 
 better get your Helayne to design them 
 -141- 
 
,/t^^ (!;*ii m-'m- cki P.^fi.ft 
 
 and they will be "what I always eulogise. 
 
 The crane is a so-called antique and 
 like most antiques is made over and re- 
 strengthened. No large broad-shoul- 
 dered muscle-knotted blacksmith swung 
 the hammer or pumped the bellows for 
 it. A goodly fellow, barely five foot 
 two, delicate of build and quite the op- 
 posite of the traditional blacksmith gave 
 many a push with his forearm to the 
 bellows handle and brought sharp quick 
 blows to bear on the red hot portions 
 of the crane. 
 
 Longfellow has given us the poem of 
 the hanging of the crane, Taylor has 
 given us the painting of it and no crane 
 can possibly ever hope to vie with these 
 in the myriad romances that one can 
 find in reading one or looking at the 
 other. But the crane that John the 
 -142- 
 
 /« D ^-^^9- 
 
 ^m. 
 
blacksmith made over for me has a 
 history, and here it is, at least as far as 
 we can reasonably trace it. 
 
 The origin of it we leave to the ob- 
 scurity it courts, perhaps it goes back to 
 the dark ages—perhaps. It came from 
 an amalgamation of parts collected from 
 Dan to Beersheba~we do not care for 
 an analysis— we spend more time in just 
 living and less in theoretical speculation 
 of origins. We cover all its unknown 
 history by one word, we say it came 
 from chaos, by the grace of God. 
 
 There was probably a time of its 
 mythology, as one might call it, and 
 after that, what not? The first real 
 record of it was that it hung in a block- 
 house fireplace in the days of war cries 
 and tomahawks when the sentinel pac- 
 ed his monotonous beat in the dead of 
 -143- 
 
night and took every moving shadow of 
 the trees or bushes for war-painted 
 savages creeping up to massacre the 
 sleeping stronghold. 
 
 When the blockhouse passed out of 
 use and peace spread its shielding wings 
 over the land one of the early settlers 
 took the crane to his rude home and 
 there it hung for over a century. 
 
 Probably there was a long and mer- 
 ry feast at the hanging of it. Later it 
 had a smouldering fire beneath it and 
 the kettle hung in the hook of it whis- 
 tled and spouted steam up the chimney 
 while two sat alone before it and "want- 
 ed no guests." 
 
 And still later King Canutes and fine 
 
 Princesses fi-om Fairy Isles grew up 
 
 and went to Cathay and war and sea. 
 
 And after many anniversaries a golden 
 
 -144- 
 
wedding party made the old house raf- 
 ters resound to the dancer's feet and the 
 merry laugh and talk and all manner 
 of pleasantry, all just as Longfellow 
 pictured it in his poem. 
 
 Son succeeded to father and son to 
 son and there in the old house it hung 
 for four generations of the same blood 
 while little bands of the same kin gath- 
 ered in a circle before it and watched 
 in two new centuries. 
 
 These were the gay youthful days of 
 its life—the first realizations of the bless- 
 ings of existence—the first self-confidence 
 of strength-the first aspirations, the first 
 disappointments and the first joys. 
 
 Then fickle Fortune turned her face 
 
 from it and civilization came in and 
 
 changed the roads and lands of the 
 
 valley and the house of the crane was 
 
 -145- 
 
left in a field to rot to pieces while the 
 people lived a quarter of a mile away 
 in an ugly modern two-storied country 
 house. 
 
 It was one day, in late summer, that 
 John made inquiries among the group 
 at the village store for an old crane and 
 Len Thomas spoke up and told him 
 there was one in the haunted house 
 near home and if he wanted it he could 
 go over and dig it out of the ruins of 
 the fireplace. So John went over. 
 
 W^hen I walked into the shop the 
 next day he was at work shortening it 
 to fit my hearth and adding a new 
 bracket to strengthen it. Thus it came 
 about that in my hearth I set up a crane 
 with a good many stories in it and very 
 often Helayne thinks they come out of 
 it, especially when we sit and "want no 
 -146- 
 
guests," gazing far into the dying fire. 
 
 We return to our reading. Helayne 
 gives me a smell of a spotless flower 
 of fields and woods culled from the fer- 
 tile and blessed brain of Hamilton 
 Mabie, while I in turn set up a scene 
 for her of three old tattered men meet- 
 ing at a cross road. They stand there 
 cowering from fear, one blind, one with 
 a loss of his left arm, the third with his 
 right foot lopped off—examples of the 
 extreme rigor against malcontents of 
 William the Conqueror. And, Hume 
 does not ring the curtain down until 
 the last hideous act of the tragedy. 
 
 And so we pass the day dreaming 
 and reading in the hearth circle in the 
 library, the room to which one comes 
 when the snow drifts outside and the 
 blinds are shaken by the winter wind. 
 
THE COUPLE IN THE WIND 
 
 \^ 
 
 m 
 
THE COUPLE IN THE WIND 
 ^E HAD trouble with the 
 ^servant problem, of course, 
 |and we put an advertise- 
 )\ment in the paper for one 
 )week and saw the lady of 
 the so-called intelligence office. 
 
 Even though there was not any bad 
 "sign" about it, Friday is a superstitious 
 day in our calendar ~ Josie, a twenty 
 year old, down East girl, came on Fri- 
 day—and left on Saturday. Perhaps 
 she was not to be blamed, for Friday 
 night was a wierd one. 
 
 Have you ever laid, tucked up to 
 your cold chin, and listened to the couple 
 in the wind? As is commonly believed 
 the old woman talks most of the time. 
 Her voice is low and probably she is 
 -151- 
 
short and fat. Her quarreling consort 
 is tall and slim and when the wind blows 
 harder and harder he gets a chance to 
 talk, and when he talks I tell you it is 
 talking. At times they quarrel, at times 
 they talk, but on a night like Friday 
 they cannot talk without quarreling. 
 One virtue of their quarreling is that 
 they know how to do it properly —and I 
 have heard of people who did not« 
 Neither one interrupts the other— she is 
 a lady and he a gentleman, and each 
 one takes a turn at it and so it goes till 
 the quarreling is done. 
 
 After you have listened and listened 
 to their rebuttal and noises commence 
 to make themselves heard in the cellar 
 and the kitchen and the dining room 
 and the library and all over the house, 
 perhaps the couple settle their dispute, 
 -152- 
 
soothing sentence or two by 
 woman, the wind dies away, and they 
 go to sleep. 
 
 But the noises about the house keep 
 up. A window rattles as if it were 
 being opened and I can hear the ghoul- 
 ish ghost enter. First there is a creak 
 of the floor near the window, then one 
 nearer, right after it, and then one near- 
 er, and then one at the foot of the bed 
 and then one near the hall door and 
 then one down stairs, after which a 
 back-kitchen blind bangs, and I imagine 
 he, in his devilish pranks, has jumped 
 the whole flight of stairs and gone with 
 a whish out of the kitchen window- 
 where to, no one knows. 
 
 Most times he comes alone, occac^'on- 
 ally he brings along with him all tiie 
 -153- 
 
old ghosts of the place. One shreiks 
 and groans, another laughs and cries, 
 another sings and whistles, each one 
 bringing back to you under the coun- 
 terpane a scene enacted under the home 
 roof. All of them ghosts of the past, 
 perhaps doomed to act an eternal com- 
 edy or tragedy. 
 
 One plays the part of an Indian, with 
 his war whoop and the dripping scalp; 
 another personates the laughing co- 
 quette, the belle of the country ball, 
 with her ungainly hoop-skirts, her curls 
 corkscrewed, a rose in her hair, a veri- 
 table fiend, forever leading on the gay 
 young men, forever deceiving them. 
 She gives one a glance, he takes it to 
 mean he is her favorite, he follows that 
 glance and soon finds other gallants led 
 by it. And so the ghosts act the play. 
 -154- 
 
Here comes another, slow and pen- 
 sive, melancholy, leaning on a cane, a 
 book under his arm, an old man. Deacon 
 Upham. He sits down in his old 
 W^indsor chair, leans his cane between 
 the spindles of the side arm, places his 
 large bell-shaped silk hat on the floor 
 and turns the pages of the Bible. 
 
 And still another, a short fat man, 
 red-faced, sleeves rolled up, the landlord 
 of the inn. He stands arms akimbo 
 and chuckles at the story told by the 
 man taking his ease over a posset. The 
 glasses on the bar fairly shake with his 
 laughter and then he takes from the 
 table the tray and like a barrel rolls to 
 the bar for more liquor. 
 
 Here is a little colonia maid, golden 
 curls and baby face, dressed in sombre 
 homespun, in all the neatness of wax, 
 -155- 
 
going to the Sunday service, down the 
 rose-hedged lane to the gate and along 
 the road to the meeting house. 
 
 In this manner we are taken back to 
 a pristine time by the ghostly Hamlets 
 of the red house. 
 
 Possibly on that Friday night the 
 ghoulish fellow or the Indian or the old 
 landlord may have been abroad on a 
 spree. Josie's eyes were certainly bulgy 
 when she appeared the next morning. 
 Helayne said she had never waited on 
 table before but I thought that possibly 
 she may have heard some of our noisy 
 ghosts, possibly the ghoulish fellow 
 went up the stairs at a bound, through 
 her room and out of her window. 
 
 Perhaps she saw him, perhaps, we 
 know not, anyway she found cause to 
 leave us. 
 
SNOW TRACKS TO THE WOODS 
 ^ ^ ^ 
 
SNOW TRACKS TO THE WOODS 
 FTER a day in the library, 
 when the sky is clear and 
 blue and the snow lies on 
 the front lawn like a soft 
 downy cover to keep the 
 
 earth warm, 
 
 "When winter soaks the fields, and female feet, 
 Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, 
 Or ford the rivulets, are best at home," 
 
 I left Helayne, writing her letters, and 
 bundled up good and warm to go down 
 toward the woods, looking for snow 
 tracks and snow effects on the same 
 walk that Helayne and I had gone in 
 the warm summer. 
 
 Around the bam I found tracks in the 
 
 snow that told me where Roger, our 
 
 neighbor's dog, had prowled around 
 
 earlier than I. On the steps that take 
 
 -159- 
 
one down the stone terrace I saw that 
 he had jumped with two feet stuck out 
 before him, a dog's way of going down 
 stairs. 
 
 I passed the elm trees at the rear of 
 the bam and started across the field 
 where the gaunt golden-rod skeletons 
 blew all over me. After the first fall of 
 snow, the field down here, looked from 
 the house to be one monotonous brown, 
 but, when on the way to the woods, I 
 found quite a lot of snow piled deep in 
 the hollows and trenches. After an- 
 other storm the snow will make it a 
 lovely level. 
 
 At that time of the year there was a 
 decided scarcity of colors; in the spring 
 and summer and autumn, all the pal- 
 ette, but, when winter is with one, only 
 the cold blue of the sky with a few 
 -160- 
 
evanescent white clouds, the soft, clean 
 white of the snow and the low-keyed 
 tone of the evergreens alternated with 
 the browns of the oak and distant or- 
 chards. Even the houses seemed to 
 take on a sober and subdued tone in 
 winter and the red of our house and the 
 white of the neighboring ones did not 
 stand out so prominent up on the high- 
 er land. 
 
 Along the southern boundary of our 
 land the woods jut out into the field 
 toward the red house, and, there beside 
 the wiggly snake path, I came upon the 
 pine trees that we had plundered of 
 branches for a past wedding decoration. 
 Nature had taken care of the mutila- 
 tion, the sap had hardened and healed 
 over the wounds. 
 
 Then, back of the blazed oak, I entered 
 
 -161- 
 
the woods and found the path that leads 
 to the river side. So far no signs of any 
 human being or bird or flower, and I 
 hurried on. 
 
 Near a little turn I found the fireplace 
 we had built in the summer when we 
 read a W^inter's Tale. Where I had sat 
 and smoked while Hela5me bouqueted 
 the violets, I found ice five inches thick. 
 I wished Helayne might be there with 
 a copy of Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 Just beyond that, more dog tracks 
 crossed the path at right angles and I 
 cut three notches in a white birch to 
 show me, in summer, the runway of the 
 hunter after rabbits and partridge. 
 
 Then, a little further on, I came on 
 some crow tracks, shaped somewhat 
 like a chicken's foot,— they reminded me 
 
 of B 's wrinkles around his eyes. 
 
 -162- 
 
Between each print there was a little 
 line that showed where the crow's tail 
 had disturbed the soft top of the snow. 
 I turned off the path and followed the 
 tracks. A low branch, undisturbed, 
 arched over them and from the height 
 of it I judged the bird was not a very 
 large one. Near a mound, that to Jim 
 Crow probably forboded danger, the 
 tracks abruptly stopped and there I 
 judged he had taken flight. 
 
 Last summer I found a crow's skull 
 and took it to my study, not gazing on 
 it with a desire for morbid pleasure as 
 Philip the Second is said to have done 
 on a skull which had on the crown of 
 Spain and grinned at him from the 
 cover of his future casket. Nor, did I 
 brood over it, in strains of melancholy 
 Hamlet or noted Guy of Warwick and 
 -163- 
 
sigh "alas, poor Jim." Neither did I 
 have it fashioned and polished in London 
 for a drinking cup, as Byron did. No, 
 none of these. In fact I was quite 
 affected by it as it lay in my palm. A 
 slight shiver ran up and down my back 
 as I looked at the empty eye-sockets. 
 I compared it to the black stuffed fellow 
 who stands silent on a root and gazes 
 down on the rows and rows of books 
 in my study. 
 
 As I came down to the pine copse, a 
 train went rumbling by, faces were 
 pressed against the window panes, the 
 green flags on the rear car stood out 
 straight and stiff and the smoke from 
 the engine flew along the snowy top 
 of the cars. What a change from the 
 time when the stage coach used to jolt 
 along the old Concord road, stopping at 
 -164- 
 
taverns for change of passengers and 
 horses, when the bride returning from 
 the honeymeon might lean from the 
 window and say "hello, Will" to one of 
 her former flames, when people meas- 
 ured distances, not by hours, but by 
 taverns with big fireplaces and good 
 warming drinks. 
 
 A little further on, I found the site of 
 a deserted tramp's encampment. An 
 old tin wash-boiler with a hole in it had 
 served for a stove, trees and branches 
 and stray fence boards had once been 
 erected overhead for shelter. Probably 
 the same fellows who slept in our woods 
 are now fed and warmed in one of our 
 Southern jails, at least I have heard that 
 down that way there is a jail noted for 
 its food and lodging, and these rovers 
 make great efforts to be sent up to jail 
 -165- 
 
for the winter months in that section. 
 I turned from the woods toward home 
 and just before leaving the beaten path 
 that runs in our neighbor's woods I 
 found a trace of summer, a checker- 
 berry. In June the children in New 
 England gather "youngsters," as the 
 tender green leaves of the checkerberry 
 are called, in winter the Bob White 
 digs through the snow for the red ber- 
 ries that are stronger in taste than the 
 leaves, perhaps for medicine for some 
 prodigal bird that has at last reached 
 home. 
 
LOT, THE RUSTIC 
 
 I 
 
 ^ 
 
LOT, THE RUSTIC 
 
 ?0-DAY the world seems 
 ^to run very much to cities. 
 fThe young man "up coun- 
 [ try" somewhere was easily 
 ^attracted to the urban uni- 
 verse somewhat as Lot was. He too 
 had quarreled with the herdsman of 
 some Abram of his home land and he 
 sought the "plain of Jordan" as a very 
 well known Lot did. 
 
 The glare of the shops and theatres 
 and restaurants attracted him, the eva- 
 nescent deity, Fortune, lead him on and 
 only after a long chase did he discover 
 her a faithless guide. In that way the 
 country Lot dwelt in the city Sodom 
 and tarried there many days. 
 
 After the glare had become familiar 
 -169- 
 
and the senses dulled to the city life, 
 one day, in spring, the flowers at some 
 florists or the faint harbinger scent of 
 the coming summer or the pale face of 
 a child hurrying with a nurse toward 
 the park or some ruddy-faced country- 
 looking lad hurrying for the railroad 
 station, some one, or all, of these, either 
 by their contrast or similarity, struck 
 deep into the heart of the man and he 
 longed to return to the country. And 
 then came a little bad health, he felt 
 "out of sorts" and he threw a few nec- 
 essaries into a dress-suit case and rush- 
 ed to a North Station or a Grand 
 Central, just as fast as he had seen the 
 country-looking lad do. 
 
 He went back in the country to live 
 and he found there a veritable Avalon. 
 In a Sylvan World he set up an Undine. 
 
4w^^W^h 
 
 THE 
 
 END 
 
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